A Thread So Thin

by Marie Bostwick

  “Poor Abigail. Something is really bothering her.”

  “It certainly is,” Charlie said. “And you’re probably Abigail’s best friend in the world, but are you helping her? Have you talked to her? No. Instead, you’re pussyfooting.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Charlie.”

  He held up his hand. “No. Hear me out. Abigail’s not the only one you’re too chickenhearted to confront. There’s Liza too. She’s not just your friend, she’s going to be your daughter-in-law. Someday she may be the mother of your grandchildren, yet you’ve done nothing to mend the broken fences between you. Why? Because you’re afraid of confronting her, that’s why. Pussyfooter.”

  I was used to Charlie’s brusque manner and teasing by now. Normally, I enjoy it, but this was hitting a little too close to home. He was starting to make me mad.

  “Hang on, Charlie. That’s not fair,” I protested as I ticked my objections off on my fingers. “I have called Liza countless times. I’ve left scores of messages. I wrote her a letter that was basically three pages of groveling. And for all my effort, I haven’t received even a hint of a response! Nothing! At the moment, I’m helping organize a bridal shower for Liza that I’ve got serious doubts she’ll even bother showing up for! The way things are going, I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll even show up for the wedding. So don’t you sit there and call me a chicken, Charlie Donnelly! I’ve done absolutely everything possible to patch things up with Liza!”

  Charlie pressed his lips together and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not everything. You haven’t gone to see her, to confront her face-to-face.”

  I shook my head. “Why should I? After the way she’s rebuffed me, why should I?”

  “Because she’s not only about to be your daughter-in-law, she’s been like a daughter to you. And because she’s your friend.”

  “Well,” I harrumphed, “friendship is a two-way street.”

  “Sometimes. Not always. When a friend’s in trouble, sometimes friendship is a blind alley, a climb down a rope into a dark hole you’re trying to pull somebody out of, a rescue mission. Of course, it’s nice if the one you’re trying to save cooperates, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they don’t even know they’re in trouble. And you, of all people, know that.” His words were chiding, but his voice took on a gentler tone.

  “After your mastectomies, you were so down and depressed. Remember? We all wanted to help, but you wouldn’t talk to anyone. Wouldn’t even get out of bed. If Mary Dell hadn’t flown up here from Texas and lovingly kicked you in the butt, you might be there still.”

  It was true. I hadn’t invited Mary Dell to visit. If she’d asked for my opinion, I’d have told her to stay in Texas and leave me alone. Instead, she blew into town like a tornado and literally dragged me from my bed of self-pity.

  “Mary Dell is a good friend,” I said.

  “I didn’t know you well enough then or I’d have done the same thing myself. Of course, now,” he said, looking me in the eye as he reached across the table to grab both my hands in his, “things are different. Chickenhearted pussyfooter that you are, I love you, Evelyn Dixon. And if you needed it, my love, I’d fly around the globe to give you a good kick in the arse.”

  “Sweet talker.”

  He grinned and bent his head over my hands, kissing one and then the other before looking up and saying, “Your friend’s in trouble, Evelyn. If she won’t come to you, you’re going to have to grab a rope, climb down the hole, and go after her. That’s what friends do.”

  Charlie was right. Pushy and opinionated, but absolutely right.

  And so, on Thursday night, without telling anyone but Mom about my plans, I took a train to Grand Central Station and then a cab to the college art gallery where Liza and her classmates, along with assorted friends, family, and faculty, were gathered for a reception celebrating the opening of the senior class art exhibition.

  I arrived at seven on the dot. I’d heard through the grapevine that Abigail and Franklin were going to the opening, but first they had to make an appearance at a cocktail benefit on the other side of the city.

  Hopefully, that would buy me time. I wanted to see Liza alone. Of course, there was still the matter of Garrett. It was a big night for Liza and naturally he was planning on being there to support her. He was driving. If he’d gotten caught in traffic, that might give me the time I needed to speak to Liza, but if not? I’d just have to cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I asked the cab driver to drop me off a block away from the college and walked the rest of the way. The gallery faced the street. The front wall was all glass, exposing a big, brightly lit room with tall ceilings and white walls covered by paintings. There were a few dozen people milling around, holding glasses of wine, some looking at artwork, others chatting with friends.

  When I spotted Liza standing in a far corner, I did a double take. She was so thin! Perhaps she’d decided to lose a few pounds before the wedding, but if that was the case, she’d gone overboard. Liza has always been slim. Now she looked gaunt and tired. Her makeup couldn’t completely conceal the dark shadows under her eyes. Garrett told me she’d been working so hard this last semester that she barely had time to eat or sleep. I’d thought he was exaggerating, trying to come up with excuses to explain her long absence from New Bern. Maybe he’d been telling the truth after all.

  She was talking to a curly haired woman about my age, probably one of her teachers. Thankfully, Garrett was nowhere in sight. The coast was clear, but I knew I didn’t have much time.

  Liza’s back was turned to the door. She didn’t see me come in. As I approached, I heard a snippet of their conversation.

  “I mean it,” the woman said with a warm smile. “You’d be my absolutely first choice.”

  I couldn’t see Liza’s face, but I could tell by her voice that the woman’s words pleased her and caught her by surprise.

  “Seriously? That’s…Well. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything right now. No rush. It’s still very up in the air, but I want you to think about it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good,” she said and then looked over Liza’s shoulder and saw me waiting. “In the meantime, I’m going to go look at the rest of the exhibit and leave you to your adoring public. Wonderful piece, Liza. You should be proud.”

  “Thanks, Professor.”

  The woman walked away. I tapped Liza on the shoulder. She turned, smiling, probably expecting Garret, or Abigail, or a classmate. When she saw it was me, her smile faded. That was no more than I expected, but it still hurt.

  Garrett could come in at any moment, and I wanted to be gone before he did. There were many things I wanted to say, questions I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t, not then. Instead, I cut to the chase.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes shifted from mine to a spot a little to the left of my nose. She didn’t say anything, just nodded ever so slightly, which might mean anything. I couldn’t tell.

  “I am, Liza. I am so terribly sorry. Please believe me when I say that I didn’t mean to hurt you. My divorce from Rob has left me a little gun-shy on the whole subject of marriage. If you don’t believe me, just ask Charlie.

  “Of course,” I said with a little smile, then reached out to take her hand, lifting it so I could see how her diamond sparkled in the light, “if he’d have offered me a ring as nice as this, I might have said yes by now.”

  My attempt to inject a little levity into the situation fell flat. “I didn’t mean what I said, Liza. I love you, you know that. Don’t be mad at me forever.”

  Her gaze shifted up to meet mine. “I wasn’t mad. I was…” She blinked a couple of times. “I was afraid. Afraid that you might be right. Afraid that Garrett was making a mistake in wanting to marry me.”

  Now I was the one who had to blink back tears. “No! Liza, no! Don’t ever think that! You’re bright and beautiful and strong. Garrett loves you and so do I. Garret
t is so happy. He’s never been so happy—and you’re the reason. He goes around the shop whistling all day. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s off-key.”

  A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “He’s not very musical, is he?”

  “No.” I smiled. “He can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but that’s all right. He has other qualities. He’s funny, smart, loyal, kind, and has a finely tuned appreciation for art. And artists.”

  The light returned to Liza’s eyes. I felt a surge of relief. Things were still awkward between us, tentative, but we were talking, beginning again.

  “Speaking of art,” I said, “where is your painting? Garrett says it’s a masterpiece.”

  “He did? Then his taste in art isn’t as good as you think. I trashed it.”

  “But you slaved over it for weeks! Garrett told me so!”

  She nodded. “Spent hours and hours working on it, only to realize I’d spent all those hours trying to pretend I was someone I’m not. It was no use.”

  I looked around the room, trying to decide which piece might belong to Liza, but none of them looked quite right. “Did you paint something else?”

  Liza shook her head. “Not painted. Quilted. Come see.”

  I followed her to the opposite side of the staircase and into a corner near the back of the gallery.

  “This is mine.”

  The woman on the quilt was tall, a slender and faintly cartoonish silhouette like a nineteen sixties paper doll, but looked even taller because her arms were extended over her head, reaching, her body stretched like a bowstring, with long locks of patchwork hair in every shade that might grow from a human head and some that didn’t—brown, black, blonde, gray, red, and blue—flowing behind, lifted by an invisible wind.

  She was a collage woman, a contradiction, a puzzle, one leg clad in a shapely bell-bottomed blue jean, the curve of which mirrored the elegant sweep of the white spangled gown worn on the other leg. There was a belt around her waist, black and thin and studded with a collection of objects—a bottle cap, a cast-off pearl earring, a bright yellow button shaped like a rubber duck. Above the blue jean leg, the left side of the torso wore a suit jacket, inky black and severely cut. The right side was dressed in a bright pink tank top with a spaghetti strap that looped over the exposed flesh of the shoulder and led the eye upward, past the gentle crook of the elbow, toward the smooth curve of the forearms, and finally to the open hands, reaching up with long, slim fingers.

  It was an astonishing quilt, an arresting and disturbing image, especially the hands.

  The black sleeve of the jacket and the pink flesh of the wrist were joined to hands that were only suggestions of hands, constructed from thick, transparent plastic, empty and insubstantial, almost ghostly, outlined against a royal blue skyline, fingertips stretched with longing toward a host of doves in flight, passing overhead with slender silver cords, like loosened tethers, clutched tight in their beaks and trailing after them, just out of reach of the hands too illusory to catch hold of a thread so thin.

  I stood there for a long moment, looking at the quilt, saying nothing. I glanced down and saw a small white card that said, SELF-PORTRAIT IN PATCHWORK. LIZA BURGESS.

  “What do you think?” Liza asked.

  I turned to look at her. “I think that you are an astounding talent. And very brave.” Liza shrugged and started to say something self-effacing, but I wouldn’t let her.

  “No. I mean it. Self-examination takes guts. And to stitch it out and put it up on a wall where everyone can see it? That requires a special kind of courage.”

  Liza looked at me, trying to weigh my sincerity.

  “Thanks.”

  “I have to go, but before I do, there’s something I want to give you.” I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a small package wrapped in layers of white tissue paper, and placed it in Liza’s hand.

  She pulled back the tissue and looked at the brooch, a Victorian silver bow set with four small diamonds on each side and a large single sapphire in the middle.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s mine. Before that, it belonged to my mother, and before that, to my grandmother. I wore it on my wedding day, just like they did. Now it’s yours.”

  Silent, she ran a fingertip around the silver loops of the bow. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.

  “How about that you’re coming to your shower next month? Won’t be much of a bridal shower without a bride. And Margot would be heartbroken if you said no. Not to mention me.”

  She nodded quickly, a little embarrassed. “Yes. Yes. Of course I’ll be there. I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I should have…I wanted to…but I didn’t know how to…” She hung her head. “You must think I’m so selfish. I just didn’t know what to say.”

  I lifted my hand to stop her apology. “It’s all right. We’re past all that now, okay?”

  She looked up, her dark eyes questioning, wondering if I meant it. She bit her lower lip nervously. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Good.”

  “How is Margot? And Ivy? And everybody?”

  “They’re good. Everyone is great. Margot is still seeing Arnie. And even though he turns a sickly shade of green anytime the words ‘wedding’ or ‘marriage’ are mentioned in his presence, I wouldn’t be surprised if, one of these days, they tie the knot. Ivy is doing some great things over at the Stanton Center. Virginia keeps making noises about needing to get back to Wisconsin, but I’m trying to keep her in New Bern as long as I can.”

  Liza smiled. “Virginia is something, all right. Hope I’m like her when I’m eighty. And what about Charlie? How are things at the Grill?”

  “Sweetie,” I said, looking at my watch, “I wish I could stay and talk, but I’ve got to run. My coming here tonight is sort of an undercover operation. I didn’t tell Garrett or Abigail anything about it, so I’d just as soon be gone before they arrive. And please don’t mention it to anybody, especially Abigail.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with Abigail?”

  “Nothing. We just had a bit of a falling-out. Don’t worry about it. It’ll blow over. She’s just been a little on edge recently.”

  “Yeah,” Liza huffed. “Tell me about it. She phones me about fifty times a day, hysterical over some detail that, frankly, I couldn’t care less about. This week it was truffles. White or black? How would I know? It’s her wedding,” Liza said and then, realizing her gaffe, corrected herself. “I mean, she’s paying for it. She can have whatever color truffles she wants.”

  Her words confirmed my suspicions. Liza didn’t want this enormous, over-the-top ceremony but, for some reason, she was putting up with Abigail’s machinations. That really didn’t seem like the Liza I knew. I wanted to know more but there wasn’t time, not then.

  “Well, when you come to New Bern for the shower, we’ll have to find time to sit down and have a good long talk, okay? Make sure you leave room for me on your dance card.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too.” I gave her a hug. After a moment, she shifted her weight, trying to pull back, but I wouldn’t let her. I held her tight, wrapping my arms around her and holding tight until I finally felt her relax in my embrace. Only then did I let go.

  “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Outside, it had started to rain. I hailed a passing taxi and got inside quickly, trying to dodge the raindrops.

  As the driver pulled away, I turned to look through the window of the cab, to the window of the gallery and beyond, to Liza, who stood with her back to the glass, looking up to the tall portrait in patchwork and the woman with the see-through hands.

  19

  Liza Burgess

  “Liza! Liza, wait!”

  I stopped and turned around. Professor Williams, not quite jogging in her scuffed blue pumps, was coming toward me, waving a magazine over her head.

  “It’s here! Just came in!” She laid her hand on her chest when she caught up to me
, pausing to catch her breath before shoving the magazine into my hand.

  “Page twenty-six,” she gasped.

  I flipped through the pages. There it was, right next to a black-and-white picture of Jackson Pollock’s studio on Long Island. The title, Pollock in Black and White: The Post-Drip Period, was printed in bold sans serif typeface and under it, in smaller letters, “by Dr. Selena Williams and Liza Burgess.”

  I looked up, shocked. “It’s…it’s got my name on it. You listed me as a coauthor?”

  Still a little out of breath, she nodded. “You worked very hard on this piece, Liza, and your work made it better. Your name deserves to be there.”

  A surprising surge of happiness coursed through me. “That’s my name! I…I can’t believe it! That’s my name!” I put my hand over my mouth to keep from giggling.

  “It is,” Professor Williams confirmed with a grin. “Your first credit in a professional journal. And I’ve got a feeling it won’t be your last. Not after the phone call I got this morning.”

  My hand fell away from my open mouth. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

  “Chicago? They called?”

  She nodded emphatically, making her frowzy curls bounce with excitement. “They called! You’re looking at the next executive director of the Pinkham Museum of Modern and Decorative Arts. I start in August, right after I finish my summer seminar.”

  “Professor! That’s wonderful!”

  “Isn’t it!” Tossing aside all veneer of academic reserve, she splayed her fingers and let out a squeal of pure unadulterated enthusiasm.

  I didn’t blame her. The Pinkham is arguably the most prestigious modern art museum outside of Manhattan. There wasn’t a professor in the college who wouldn’t have traded places with her in a heartbeat.